


Bed, Bath & Beyond

by Meowbowwow



Series: The Smut Tales Of 221B [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathtub Sex, Hair Kink, M/M, Smut, writer has no hope at sanity, writer is shameless, writer needs to write smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Another thing you need to know about Sherlock Holmes is that he has very sensitive hair follicles, tug them the wrong way and he’ll be on his knees begging for mercy, but do that painful tugging at the right time and he would be between your knees, and you can use your prolific imagination for the mercy bit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bed, Bath & Beyond

It was hot. If John had to use one word from his very limited and unornamented vocabulary, it would be this. Not Sherlock sleeping in the bathtub, though that was pretty hot too, but no, not that. This, the weather, was HOT. John was almost getting used to wiping his brow on his sleeve; his hands now moved on their own accord as he tried to resist the tea in this heat wave and failed, very badly so, to break out of this one addiction.

And Sherlock was becoming a hazard of his own because he had foregone any semblance of decorum that they had in the flat. He gave up on the sheets, the flimsy gowns and frankly, anything would have sufficed but he absolutely refused to cover himself up. The infamous Irene Adler would have given a shaky laugh and handed him a napkin, if she were at hand. He roamed around the place in absolutely nothing, doing his work in the kitchen and going about the day like it was any other, unaware (not really) of a certain John Watson’s gaping frustration as his tea cup went tantalisingly close to being dropped when he bent over to fetch something from the lower shelf. John thanked his lucky stars that they had decided to let go of his notions about his own heterosexuality before this heat wave or he would have melted and would have had to be scraped off the floor. Hallelujah indeed.

“Sherlock?” John whispered at the very sleepy figure in the bathtub.   
No response. Same old, same old.

He looked around; there was a towel under his head, so the sleep was planned. Strange, John wondered because Sherlock never slept. And then a pale hand appeared from under the water, very wet, too wet for comfort, and wrote something in the air, grasped at an intangible door knob (or was it a handle) and tried to jam it inside a box and as casually as the hand had appeared, it went back under the foamy water, to rest on top of the other one. For anyone else, this entire performance would have been confusing, most people would even call it ‘mind boggling’ but not John, who let a soft ‘oh’ escape him as comprehension dawned – Sherlock was in his mind palace. It wasn’t John’s fault that he followed the movement of the pale hand, it was definitely not his fault when he casually let his eyes stray to the lap to see what the interlocked fingers were resting on and you would be unfair if you blame him for being a little disappointed to find a not so erect member there.

Now, you have to know this, when Sherlock goes inside his mind palace, he actually leaves the thing that we mortals call the ‘world’ and mentally transports himself to the said place. John, whenever he thinks about Sherlock’s mind palace, always ends up imagining the Hogwarts castle. He did try to mention it to Sherlock once but the detective gave him such a scorching look, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips in a thin line, that John almost dropped the tea in embarrassment (well, almost because it would take a lot more than Sherlock Holmes to make John Watson drop his tea and there isn’t anything ‘more’ than Sherlock Holmes, so moot point). Anyways, so basically when Sherlock Holmes is in his mind palace, there is almost nothing that can get him out of it, not even a very randy doctor who adores the moments when his lover is deep in thought and scowls when that moment goes wasted and unutilised.

Another thing you need to know about Sherlock Holmes is that he has very sensitive hair follicles, tug them the wrong way and he’ll be on his knees begging for mercy, but do that painful tugging at the right time and he would be _between_ your knees, and you can use your prolific imagination for the mercy bit. And John loves his hair, his affection knows no bounds when that beautiful head is on his lap and his fingers gently sift through the locks to put the detective to sleep, his lust could take the entire Scotland Yard down when he fists his hands in those lush hair and thrusts into that beautiful mouth. And Sherlock loves it, the affection and the lust of it, everything.

Well, right now, John was feeling quite gallant, resisting the urge to push those hair, those verywet hair, those drippingwet hair, out of the detective’s face, and maybe lick the rivulets that were running down from the nape of his neck onto the towel. _Stop it, John,_ his soldier voice of conscience in his head slapped him out of his revelry. _But, he’s gone, he won’t even notice,_ John answered back, feeling much like his 12 year old self again, arguing with his mother on Halloween candies. Come to think of it, this wasn’t much different.

And so, John snubbed the soldier voice. _I’m a grown up,_ he thought. _What could possibly go wrong,_ he reasoned. _I’m so doing it!_ he rejoiced. The soldier voice skulked away but not without whispering “ _You have gone over to the dark side, John_ ” in an undertone.

John reached out to touch the beautiful hair and then a thought occurred to him, a very filthy thought, absolutely contemptible. Needless to say, he lost no time acting on it. Well, firstly, he removed his clothes without any fuss and hissed in relief as the cool air of the room hit his body. After that, very efficiently, he sat back, his legs stretched out in front of him and his back against the tiled wall, perpendicular to Sherlock’s lanky figure in the bathtub and let the bundled up towel slide slowly, lowering the head gently on his thighs. Not even a twitch from the genius. _Very good_.

And then, well, remember the hair? Remember John’s fascination with it? Well, if you ask John, Sherlock was almost asking for it, begging for him to do what he did, run his hand over crown, once, petting, nothing great. And then, a bloody lock stuck to his finger, tangled menace, and so John let his other fingers help, that’s what they were there for, after all and then, well, he just couldn’t let them out. _Oh holy fuck_ , he moaned, as silently as he could and pushed them gently through the scalp, letting the hair cling back the way he liked, the ends tickled his wrist as his own erection almost waved madly to get his attention.

It needn’t have though, John could feel it starting to build deep in his abdomen, the crushing need to touch himself but there was this other pleasure pain nerve in his head that was enjoying the delay, the wait and the build-up. So, he continued playing with the locks, tugging them once, very gently in the other direction and watching Sherlock’s face give the smallest of reactions. Barely there but oh, it did things to John’s rather sensitive-at-the-moment libido. He did it again, a little harder this time, and Sherlock sighed a low, deep and audible sigh that made John bite a bright spot on his own bicep.

Well, after that, normal people would have simply extracted themselves, ignored their raging erection that was a tad too close to their boyfriend’s mind-palace state (because he wasn’t asleep) and skittered off into their room to take a nice long wank. Normal people don’t live with Sherlock Holmes and normal people don’t know what a pretty picture it makes when the very wet head of your erection is close to that very wet head full of damp hair and those beautiful cheekbones and all you can think off is coming all over them. The Filthy God of Filthiness gave John a beaming thumbs-up from above as he recorded the said images from John’s head to his personal device for private viewing later.

Meanwhile, John Watson used his left hand to grab on to his aching erection, wasting no time to get down to business, always the pinnacle of efficiency, and started stroking slowly and casually, his thumb rubbing over the head and spreading the pre cum (who has the time to fetch the lube!). He teased the frenulum and continued to keep the strokes nice and long, enjoying the increasing tension in his balls. His right hand travelled lower, towards the bottom where the head rested on his thigh and he cupped the skull, his tips scratching the scalp and feeling the hair there twirl around his fingers like wild vine. He closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the tile, working his left hand faster now, tightening his fist, imagining it to be Sherlock’s tight hole, closing around him, greedy, wanting, wet, licking- wait, what!

He opened his eyes to find a very awake detective with very widely blown pupils and an even wider smile looking at him, licking his lips and then the head again, smirking in such a lecherous way that had John not seen that look a hundred times before, he wouldn’t have believed it.  
“You continue to surprise me, John,” he said, no, he growled, as he wriggled the tip of his tongue and lapped up all the pre cum with hungry eyes, never leaving John’s. The angle was awkward, he couldn’t keep it up for long and so, John made to move the show to the bedroom but Sherlock gave him a smirk, and pushed him back.

And then he went on to prove why he was the genius, even in the bedroom (bathroom?). Closing his own hand around his erection, he moved his head so that John’s erection traced his cheekbones and oh god, John would have come right there, what with the veins of Sherlock’s neck standing out as he moved the graceful neck, knowing that John’s eyes were following the slight flutter there, knowing that as he licked his lips before smiling and pushing his cheek against the head, John’s hand moved faster and his moans grew louder but were somehow drowned by Sherlock’s own whimpers. As a final nail in John’s coffin to be called the alpha in bed (bath), Sherlock pushed back his head and buried John’s erection in his damp curls. John came two strokes later, with such a loud gasp that Sherlock halted his own rather busy work to spare a wide grin as ribbons of cum splattered across his cheekbones, dribbling onto his neck and most went inside his hair.

“Oh fuck,” John slumped down as Sherlock sounded pretty close himself, his hand moving faster. John was still in his post orgasmic haze, and so, he gave the detective one thing he loved, a boost. He exclaimed, “God, Sherlock, you’re a genius, you are fantastic!” and that is all it took for a very egotistical detective to finish, the moans of “Johnnnn” lost in his throat as a strong hand wrapped around his torso, preventing him from slipping inside the water.

Later, as he sat in the tub in a very cuddly detective’s arms, getting his neck slowly licked and bitten and his lobes sucked on, he asked, “When did you wake up, I mean, come out of your mind palace?” Sherlock chuckled against his ear and pulled him closer, kissing him on his pulse.

“What! You weren’t sorting your palace? But but- I saw you!”  
“Of course you did, that was the idea.” Sherlock laughed again, that open and genuine laugh that he reserved for a very angry and adorable John Watson and the one that melted the doctor to embarrassing levels.

“Idiot,” he scowled, kissing him once on the lips, stealing one little tug and getting up from the tub. They stood there, John drying the hair of a very clingy detective who had his face squished against him, kissing his pudge and blowing raspberries against it that made John giggle.

“I don’t even know why I love you,” John made a face as Sherlock refused to cooperate in the ordeal that was towelling his hair.  
“Oh I do,” Sherlock bit on the soft flesh, making the most exquisite of slurping noises that actually made John look down, a hand held his wrist and directed it to his hair while the other held on to him, sucking on the soft middle. For once, John didn’t seem to mind ignoring the gym because Sherlock looked in bliss, utter heavenly intoxication as he clung onto him. John’s fingers seemed to have developed a mind of their own, combing through the curls, Sherlock’s mouth travelling down towards the growing erection.

“Sherlock, but we jus- oh god!” the doctor clutched that head that was concocting brilliant schemes of his ruination, guiding those nimble fingers that traced his balls, merciless teasing.

“Oh but you weren’t done, were you?” Sherlock kneaded them, meeting John’s eyes and oh the balls of him, he gave him a cheeky wink and continued his lazy fondling, waiting for John to say the words. And so John did, by yanking his hair to the left, a gentle yank but effective nonetheless because with a long drawn and beautifully baritoned “Ohhhhhhhh John” the detective was on his knees, teabagging John.

And thus, an unusually hot day went the usual way in 221B. 

**Author's Note:**

> My beta is busy with exams, feel free to nitpick and point out stuff I fucked up with. Thank you for reading, you all are as filthy as I am. 
> 
> xx  
> Meow


End file.
